Ten Minutes to Dying
by Eva Galana
Summary: Series of prequel drabbles pertaining to my Amell/Fergus story "Worth Fighting For" - no order. This is also in answer to a Cheeky Monkey challenge to write a story in 10 minutes. Each chapter is an answer to that challenge. Amell/Alistair/Fergus & Crew
1. It Did Not Matter

_This started as an answer to a Cheeky Monkeys' challenge to write something within ten minutes. This prompted me to not only answer the challenge, but decide to do a series of prequel drabbles for my Fergus/Amell story 'Worth Fighting For'. These may or may not be in any order, just posted as they come to me. But each 'chapter' will be in answer to the above challenge._

_It Did Not Matter:_

It did not matter, not anymore. And who was she to care?

Aimlessly she wiped the cloth along the blade of her greatsword, _Starfang_, blinking away the tears that threatened to escape her blinking eyes and flood her cheeks. That he was with _her_ should not matter any longer. He had set her aside, claiming that she – as a mage, as a commoner – was no longer good enough…her breath caught in her throat. His words. Almost exactly.

During the year and more they had travelled together, Magda had never seen the level of callousness within Alistair that she saw at the finale of the Landsmeet. Not only had he claimed the throne – after they had agreed he would not – but had ordered Anora's execution.

Nearly choking, the young mage fought to erase the memory of Anora's shocked and terrified face as the queen learned her fate. That had not been what they had agreed to. What Alistair had agreed to.

He had turned Magda into a liar.

Not only had he done these things, but then he turned to her, the woman he had claimed to love, and proclaimed that their affair (and again, these were his words) was over. As king, he would need a suitable noblewoman as his bride.

Even Arl Eamon was astonished by the level of callous thoughtlessness his former ward had exuded. Magda wondered if it had been thoughtlessness.

The nobles, however, seemed to eat it up. They were thrilled, after all, to have a king of the Theirin line back on the throne. To have the common-born queen removed once and for all.

And now he rutted, yes rutted, with that…that Swamp Witch! She who had proclaimed to be her friend, akin to a sister! What had happened? Why had the two people she had been closest with betrayed her?

What had she done to earn their scorn so thoroughly?

Tears finally overflowed their bounds, and ran unimpeded down her cheeks. Unable to see, she set her blade down, blurry eyes seeking the door to her chamber, willing her sight to see beyond the wood and stone.

Not that she really wanted to see whatever it was the pair of them was up to.

_No_. She really did not.

Heartbroken, she lifted her blade again, running the soft cloth along the strange, gleaming star metal, counting her days until she faced the Archdemon.

And, despite Morrigan; despite Alistair, she would meet the Blighted fiend. For, somehow, the will and desire to continue to live had fled her.


	2. Everyone Is Out For Themselves

"_Everyone is out for themselves, Alistair," she had said, bitterness in her voice, her eyes fixed upon the wooden door to his sister's house. Then, those dark eyes turned to him, harder than he had ever seen them. Memories. He was sure of it. Memories of past betrayals were assaulting her, and made her say the words she was now._

"_You have to look out for yourself, Alistair," there was still that bitter, bitter tone, but her eyes softened somewhat as they focused upon his face. "You cannot let others use you. You are stronger than that." She waved a hand toward the sorry house. "You don't need people like that!"_

He had taken her words, and now chose to live by them.

He would watch every movement; listen to every word spoken to him. He would look out for himself.

No one had before. Well, not before Magda. And he did love her. Knew she loved him, with everything that she was.

But, now was the time for him to get what he wanted; what he deserved. He had too long been cast aside, as nothing. Rejected by a father who saw him as a mistake; ignored by his own brother; sheltered in the stables or kennels, and finally, when it was obvious he was nothing but a continued reminder of failure, shipped to the Chantry.

All for the benefit of others; all because no one cared or thought of what was best for him.

Well, now he would. He had to watch out for himself.

He looked over to where Magda stood, her armor and sword bloodied from her battle with Loghain, the man's cooling corpse still at her feet, her dark eyes fixed upon his face, disbelief shining like a beacon at his words.

"_I will take the throne!"_

He ignored the slight pang in his chest as tears welled in her eyes, the tiniest of shakes of her head as she stood, frozen on the spot. Eamon was pleased. He could see the old coot, glowing with pride, shooting a condescending glare toward the stunned mage.

The nobles were pleased. Just listen to their cheers and applaud. The name Theirin resounding from their lips, echoing throughout the great chamber.

Alistair's eyes seek out his former guardian once again. _Ha_! He thinks he's won? Where was the caring and pride during his growing years? The love he proclaimed he had when he truly needed it as a child, being sent away, fearful of what tomorrow would bring? When the old man was his guardian, but chose not to fulfill that purpose? That promise to keep the King's mistake?

But now, he could not face Magda; her pain so obvious and shining upon her face, hurt him. Swallowing, he pushed that feeling away, forced his gaze to skim over her beaten form. He knew that, in order to get what he should have had his entire life – recognition, acknowledgment – he had to give up the…smaller things. He had her love; he finally knew love.

Now he would know more.

He would have more.

He almost cannot believe the next words out of his mouth, those words condemning Anora to death. However, he knows that, if she were to live, she would be a continual thorn in his side, always striving to regain her power back. After all, that was what he and Magda had promised her – her support at the Landsmeet for her retaining her throne.

And, he had meant to honor that agreement.

Until he got the most sound advice in his life.

"_You have to look out for yourself, Alistair."_


	3. Falling

_Falling_

Frustration coursed through the Warden's body as he brought a hand over his eyes, scanning the skies. A tremendous roar ripped through the sounds of battle, and he knew where he had to be.

Climbing the outer steps of the tower, sword and dagger in hand, the Senior Warden counted the steps, carrying him ever upwards. Yet his mind did not want to focus on the task at hand. Only in the knowledge he had to bring the blighted thing down…had to bring it down and kill it before that child mage could reach it.

_Damn that fool boy anyway!_ Magda had made certain – absolutely certain – that the Wardens would remain out of the politics. Anora was to take the throne, order the armies to follow the Wardens' lead, and then, at the very least, they would have thousands of warriors, archers, rogues and mages at their backs as the three – _three_ – Wardens within the borders of Ferelden took down the Archdemon.

_Damn Alistair for stealing the throne!_ What was the blasted boy thinking! This was not the same shy boy standing at Duncan's shoulder that he had met almost two years prior. That boy had known how to follow orders; realized that the Grey Wardens were – or should have been – more than the average warrior.

And yet he risked everything – his country – to the Blight for the throne? Had he not brayed loudly how he had no interest in it?

So now, there was only Riordan and Magda. And Riordan would be damned if he would let that little girl – tall as she was, strong as any warrior, carrying that huge greatsword – lose her life and soul to a task that should have been seen to by a contingency of Senior Wardens. Those closer to their Calling, not a girl who had barely truly experienced the true nightmare of being a Warden!

For the first time, Riordan found himself cursing his old friend. _Duncan, what were you thinking, placing yourself and the King on the front lines like that?_

And not for the first time, he cursed the Wardens of Orlais, shoring up their own borders, more than willing to allow the nation of Ferelden to fall to a Blight, when they should have said damn to Loghain's orders that they not cross and do so anyway!

In times of Blights, Wardens did what they had to do.

He paused, catching his breath, as he stood upon the roof of the tower. Swooping around him was the desiccated dragon form of the Archdemon, crying out its challenge to the Warden. Riordan frowned, taking a deep breath as he watched, pacing to the edge of the tower.

_I should have secured a tether_, he thinks belatedly, realizing that this is folly, but what other choice does he have? He needs to try…this may well be the only chance they have.

And he leaps…arms out against the wind, driving his blades down as he lands ungracefully upon the broad, scaled back of the ancient dragon. He drives his blades deeply into the tough hide, twisting, the dragon's screams rushing back at him upon the wind. With another thrust, he drives the blades up higher as he crawls his way toward the dragon's head.

If he could only reach the head, drive the blades deeply into the beast's eyes…

A sudden banking sends the Warden careening, slipping, his raised dagger falling from numbed fingers. Another banking motion, and he is falling away from the dragon, his sword digging deeply, tearing a great rend in the membrane of an outstretched wing.

The dragon screams in agony again as it careens away, crashing onto the roof of Fort Drakon, and Riordan falls to the ground, his task incomplete.


	4. Perceptions

It had been, how long since he had last been to this place? Four…five years? Longer? Had Oren even been here? He could not be certain, and he found that now it did not matter.

There were memories here, to be certain. But, he found it far easier to face those that lurked within these halls than he would…elsewhere. Absentmindedly, he brushed a hand along the ironbark mantel that hung over the fireplace, his dark eyes skillfully avoiding staring up into the portrait hanging above.

He was not quite ready to face those ghosts just yet.

From beyond this room, in the hallway, came the scape and clamber of furniture being moved, luggage being dropped upon hardwood floors. A slight, sad smile crossed Fergus' face as he paced to the room's door, opening it to watch as Magda and the elven male – what was his name? – carefully shuffled their luggage from before the door.

The young Teyrn shook his head as the pair turned to each other, the elf raising a long fingered hand to run across the taller woman's cheek. There were murmured words, but he could not make them out. Like him, the Warden merely wished a place of refuge. And he knew well she would not find it by remaining at the palace.

Fergus had been surprised that most of the Warden's companions had chosen to remain either at the palace or at Arl Eamon's estates. The Warden from Jader - Riordan, the young noble recalled correctly – had indicated a desire to board where Magda would. Although new to the group, the senior Warden had shown remarkable loyalty to the young mage. Although Fergus was almost certain that the Warden compound, found upon the Palace grounds, had been so badly damaged by the late Teyrn Loghain as to be unlivable, may have also played a part in the Warden's decision to remain by Magda.

Letting a deep breath out, Fergus leaned against the door, still watching the pretty mage as she allowed the elf to wrap his arms about her shoulders and pull her down for a tight hug. He ducked his head, the sight of her tears hurting him. Reminding him, yet again, of those lost, of what could never be found.

He had offered her a room shortly after Alistair's declaration that he would take the throne. Magda had wished for them all to remain together, but Fergus had believed she would need time and space to recuperate her thoughts before once again leading them out onto the road to Redcliffe. The elf had agreed, immediately declaring he would not leave her side. The others made excuses of being settled, not wanting the hassle of packing, unpacking and repacking within such a short span of time.

Whatever their reasons, however reasonable they may have sounded, Fergus knew they hurt the young mage deeply. And he found himself once again wondering at the dynamics within the group.

They had all seemed loyal to the Wardens, following her orders without question. He had seen genuine friendship and care within each set of eyes or revealed in actions prior. Whatever had happened at the Landsmeet seemed to have diminished the Warden in their eyes. Perhaps it had been her inability of pulling back the reins once Alistair had broken free of the hard laid plans they had made. Perhaps it was the sight of her own tears – perhaps seen as a weakness by some – as Alistair set her aside.

Cursing to himself, Fergus wished he had taken the time to have gotten to know the rest of the group better. Instead, he had spent most of his time – when not in sorrowful contemplation or planning Howe's downfall – at Magda's side, getting to know the young mage.

At least a little, he revised with a bitter smile.

He still respected her; still saw her as the reason why they very well could defeat the Blight.

If the others could not, so much more their own fault, and not one that lay within the young woman who had given so much and had gained so little.

Sighing heavily, he turned, carefully closing the door silently as the pair in the outer chamber picked up their baggage and headed upstairs to search out their rooms.


	5. The Perspective of a Crow

_The Perspective of a Crow_

What he would love nothing more than was to wipe that smirk from the young king's face. Perhaps simply drive a blade or two into that well muscled chest? Maybe hamstring the bastard?

Ah, but no, the former Crow shakes his tawny head sadly, golden eyes fixed upon the golden figure standing upon the dais. He is not _that_ man any longer.

In no small part thanks to the tall woman who stood beside the golden king now, her dark eyes bright with pain as the newly crowned king continues with his accolades and promises, asking now what boon he could possibly owe the woman who had saved the country.

_Boon_? He who took her love and threw it so forcefully back into her face? Now the Bastard king (and _that_ was how he would always think of Alistair) dare ask what _boon_ he could possibly bestow upon her? When he had so aptly taken all of her hopes and dreams and dashed them upon the floor?

_Bastard_!

Zevran's eyes leave the dais, scanning the crowd surrounding them. Wynne stood off to the side, among the other mages and Templars that had come from the Circle to attend to the ceremony. After all, one of their own had been proclaimed the Hero of Ferelden (such a pedestrian title); should they not make their presence known? Perhaps garner a bit of the notoriety for them?

Bah!

Those eyes – always seeing, always taking in everything – skimmed along, focusing upon Leliana, who watched the scene before them with rapt attention. The elf thought that she was already composing a suitably romantic bit of drivel.

The Sten stood far to the back, that perpetually disapproving frown upon his face. Oghren was drunk, already, and that proved no surprise to the assassin.

With a heavy sigh he focused once again upon his friend, Magda. Former mage of the Circle, now Warden Commander of Ferelden. The elf shook his head, frowning yet again. He, of them all, knew that all she wanted was simply to dissolve into the background, unseen and forgotten.

It would appear that the King and the Wardens had other ideas.

Angry and disappointed at those he had traveled with for so long, the elven assassin focused his attention upon the Teyrn Fergus Cousland, who stood at the front as befitted his status. As Teyrn of Highever, Fergus was the second most powerful man in all of Ferelden.

Not even that sly old fox Eamon could tell the younger noble what he could and could not do. Zevran wondered – briefly – if that knowledge stuck in the old manipulator's craw.

_Ah, Zevran_, he thought to himself, _how jaded you are_. _To think such things at such a time_…his eyes once again focused upon Magda, standing still and tall beside Alistair, her dragon bone armor shining in the light of hundreds of candles, her dark chestnut colored hair gleaming with red fire. Yet again, the assassin found himself mesmerized by her beauty. Oh, for certain, the Antivan had seen and experienced many women who had more of a claim to beauty than did his Warden. But, it was her heart, her ability to see beyond the flesh and banter, to look deeply into another's eyes and truly see that person for how they were.

It was why she had never balked at his guarding her back, even after he had been sent to kill her.

It was why she had called him her friend, and stood up for him when even others from their motley crew would denigrate and belittle him.

It was why, now, he stood with her – well, figuratively seeing as how she was many yards away from him – even as the others had already begun to move away from her as they prepared for their own lives that no longer consisted of fighting the Blight.

All those favors she had done for them – all those tasks and quests, all that time she had taken out for their petty little quibbles and quips…all forgotten.

A small smile crossed his handsome face as his eyes settled once again upon the still form of Fergus Cousland. At least there was someone out there, other than himself, who saw the value of the woman for what she was – a true friend. Someone self-sacrificing, honest (sometimes her honesty hurt, but, he still appreciated it), someone to turn to. Fergus, too, had benefitted from her friendship.

And so the assassin had hope that, even should all of the others abandon her side, she would have him always there.

And another friend to call upon when she had a need.


	6. Never the Model Mage

_Thanks to everyone who has been following along. Special thanks to Integra Hawke, Snarkoleptic and Arsinoe de Blassenville for their reviews._

_And now…Wynne…_

_Never the Model Mage…_

_Well, the girl certainly gathered an…eclectic band of misfits._

The thought ran through the elderly mage's mind in rotation, not quite as merry round of song, but it was beginning to wear even upon the quiet calm that she allowed to mask her face. Faded blue eyes went from the handsome elven assassin to the spirited red headed girl, resting finally upon the stoically silent Qunari warrior the girl in question was now speaking with. _Tsking_ aloud, she shook her white head, not for the first time thinking of her disapproval for the younger mage.

After all, Magda Amell had never been the model mage; had come to the tower far too old to even be considered a student, with such rudimentary spell casting abilities that more than just she had questioned if the girl had been a true mage. Why Irving had wasted his time with the girl had been beyond the senior enchanter's imaginings.

Magda Amell was a trouble maker, whether intentionally or not. She had quickly become a favorite amongst the younger mages, especially Anders. Again, that _tsking_. The boy had been trouble enough without the girl's tales of life outside of the tower to boost his wander lust.

There had been times Wynne had wondered why the Templars had simply not killed the girl outright. After all, she had been an apostate, had she not? No one comes to their magic so late in life, regardless of what the girl had insisted.

Obviously, she was a liar.

A slender, pale hand rose to gently touch her forehead. When she had seen the troublesome girl at Ostagar, as a Grey Warden recruit, no less, Wynne had believed that Duncan had finally taken leave of his senses. What use was a girl – a mage – who could barely cast the simplest of spells?

Those pale eyes fixed upon the sword and shield the girl had left leaning against her tent, cleaning cloths lying beside it. For some reason, the elderly mage felt almost grateful that the mage was not utilizing a mage's staff as her weapon, but the more barbaric bladed weapon Magda had insisted she had been trained in during her lifetime.

Another lie, Wynne was certain, to continue to mesmerize the other youngsters and remain at the center of their world.

At least there was the sensible Alistair, the young almost-templar grinning over in the young mage's – ah, girl's - direction as she waved her hands in front of the Qunari, obviously in a one-sided argument with the foreign warrior. A snort from the side brought the elderly woman's attention to the other younger mage in the group, and she had to force down the sneer that threatened to cross her face as her gaze shifted to the raven haired apostate.

Sighing, she settled back down, picking up the darning she had offered to do for Alistair. Why she had asked to join the girl's group she still could not reckon. Perhaps she had been hit harder by that abomination? Perhaps her spirit savior was guiding her thoughts and actions more than she had realized.

Either way, she was stuck. But, perhaps it would be for the best…as inexperienced as Magda was, surely she would finally – _finally_ – accept the advice and greater experience of the elder mage?


End file.
